


The music, the transgression of the spheres

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1870s Boston AU, All of them are women, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Historical Dress, Smut, Women's Rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, though frustrated, can deal with the sorts of commentary that one expects to get as part of a socially motivated club for young women in Boston in 1871, especially with her cheerfully irrepressible friends. Tackling the issues of her personal life with Grantaire carries difficulties all their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The music, the transgression of the spheres

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer! Also a thousand thanks to [Samy](http://www.samyazaz.tumblr.com) for assuring me that this made some amount of sense, as she is a darling.
> 
> The Boston woman's club/suffragette AU that no one knew they needed, inspired by a real life article from 1871 that I can't quote for archive reasons. Contains references to period accurate sexism. Also smut. Definitely smut. As always, let me know if I missed tagging something!
> 
> (Please ask me about the ridiculous details of corsetry and dress and other details, I know _so many otherwise useless things_.)

"You cannot still be sulking over that article, Enjolras," Joly says, hopping up a little to perch on the table, swinging her feet slightly. Her hair is only loosely still pinned, a few stray pieces falling free, and her hat and gloves are nowhere to be seen - Enjolras privately suspects that Grantaire has been placed in custody of them. Neither Joly nor Bossuet have the ability to keep things in order - that Grantaire is the least likely to lose their accoutrements is almost a frightening thought. But the fact remains that Joly is casually seated on the table, her mouth curved up in a cheery smile, and she's spinning her walking cane idly between her fingers.

Enjolras lets out a soft sigh of a sound, letting her brow arch up with only a touch of severity. "It was a very condescending article."

"Of course it was. What does one expect, from the newspapers?" Joly's mouth quirks wryly. "But as Combeferre has pointed out, at least he also said some complimentary things about us. Oh, I know, it irked her, too, but you know she's always practical."

"Eminently so," Enjolras agrees.

Joly reaches out, patting Enjolras' hand gently. "If it makes you feel better, none of _us_ would describe your face as shy. That your hair defies all attempts to tame it, well, we can hardly deny. Other than that, grave and serious and intent are all very good words to describe you - Courfeyrac is bemoaning the fact that she only got a line to your paragraph, though, of course, she takes exception to a _reporter_ calling her deliciously piquant rather than a boy she's pursuing. Will you come sit with us? Prouvaire's finished taking the meeting minutes, so you've no excuse."

"Yes. Thank you, Joly," Enjolras says. She leaves off the rest, the note about Courfeyrac's warring desires to burn or preserve the article detailing their club - pleased that there's some public support and frustrated beyond words at the dismissal of them all as beautiful and strange, her own irritation that there was an entire paragraph dedicated to her beauty when the accomplishments of her friends and companions are reduced to passing footnotes. She presses her friend's hand and rises, smoothing her skirts with a brush of the hand.

Joly beams, bouncing lightly to her feet and tucking her hand in Enjolras' elbow to lead her over to the rest of the group.

They are the cream of the crop of Boston's social circle, this strange group of young women. Their small social club is intimate and close, dangerously radical in the eyes of some, but respectable enough that no one would dare suggest anything untoward, no matter who Combeferre manages to subtly suggest for the lectures they host. That's what attracted the Boston Post reporter in the first place, Enjolras imagines.

Most of them are the daughters of wealthy or respectably well off citizens, Enjolras herself not least amongst them. Bahorel and Feuilly, and to a degree Bossuet, are exceptions, but no one in their small inner circle would ever think the less of them for it. The fact that they routinely listen to lectures from eminent scientists, artists, and writers, to women as well as men, that they discuss the finer points of literature and drama and political circumstances, well - in the eyes of the public, that is an oddity, if one that Enjolras wishes to change.

She slides into a seat between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, sweeping her skirts and bustle neatly out of the way. They are her best friends for a reason - Courfeyrac, her curls all orderly and neatly done under her fetching, fashionable bonnet flashes Enjolras a smile warmer than the summer sunshine, and Combeferre, every stitch in place even if her gloves are stained with ink at the fingertips and her boots with the mud from trekking about the parks in search of moths and certain plants, reaches to touch Enjolras' knee briefly.

The conversation is as lively as ever. The article, which has stuck in all of their minds since it was published several days before, is once more a point of contention. Its author had contrasted them with their sisters, speaking of them all as burgeoning philosophers where other girls spoke of beaus and spring fashions. Courfeyrac, perhaps one of the best dressed young women in Boston, and Bahorel, who dresses boldly but handsomely with a truly obscene number of flounces, have taken offense to the line, declaiming fiercely about the perception of exclusivity. Bossuet, though clearly in agreement, quickly ropes Joly and Combeferre into her side, bringing up a lecture they'd heard a month before on the impracticality of women's clothing and possible - and increasingly liberal - solutions. Prouvaire, in the Artistic dress she’s somehow convinced her parents to let her wear in public, listens with amusement, her chin propped on her hand.

Enjolras is content to listen, feeling herself smile as her friends banter and rant. It's a delightful chaos, free-spirited and lively in a way that they aren't allowed to be out in society. She glances across the circle, happy to simply watch them, when she catches Grantaire’s eyes.

Her amused smile quirks briefly into a smirk, gaze seeming to hook and hold Enjolras in place. Stray curls have fought free of her coif, wild in a way that even Enjolras can’t hope to match, and no one with any sort of bustle to her skirts should be able to slouch so. But somehow, Grantaire manages it, along with an insouciant little look that should be enough to have Enjolras blushing, much as she does her best not to react.

Those looks are new and rare, after a few weeks of uncertainty on Grantaire’s part, as if some small amount of cheekiness might break Enjolras’ patience with her. But Grantaire, better or worse, is an irrepressible woman in her way, and Enjolras almost missed the teasing. It’s a relief, nearly, to know that they have not altered entirely now that they share a bed (when they can, and not nearly as often as Enjolras wishes).

Then Bahorel says something that catches Grantaire’s attention, already grinning as she returns her attention to the conversation to add a pun, and Enjolras can’t help her smile. But the discussion is already circling back to the lecture they heard last week, and Feuilly is leaning forward to contribute thoughtfully, contrasting the economic circumstances of the United States with those of the Dominican Republic.

“That reminds me,” Combeferre murmurs when there’s a break in the conversation again, adjusting her glasses minutely. “We have our next two lecturers engaged, but we’ve nothing for next month.”

“Perhaps we should take a break from the lecture series to put on a play,” Courfeyrac muses, with a sweep of her hand toward Joly and Bossuet. “Weren’t you both just telling me about something French? Don’t look at me like that, Enjolras, French is _cultured_.”

“It wasn’t the French I was referring to,” she replies, amused. “I only wonder if the drama is worth the while.”

Combeferre’s hand comes up to hide her smile at the pun, but Grantaire laughs, with a fond, incredulous look – as though she isn’t just as bad.

“Well, as we’re being incited to unwomanly rebellion by French novels, we may as well do another play,” Feuilly says dryly. “With Combeferre as our mild mannered king murdered in his bed and Enjolras as the regicide.”

“I would make a _much_ better Lady Macbeth than Enjolras,” Courfeyrac insists, offended, though her eyes are amused. “I am _tremendously_ more dramatic.”

“Melodramatic,” Bossuet informs her, with a lazy wave of her hand. “Hamlet, perhaps. Prouvaire can be Ophelia, and Joly and I can take the parts of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, with Bahorel for our murderer.”

“I would be an _excellent_ tyrant,” Bahorel agrees cheerfully while Prouvaire thoughtfully nods her agreement. “We should take it up as our last chance to shock and horrify the old men of the city, set them to clutching their hats.”

Combeferre smiles, though Enjolras can _see_ her perking up at the prospect. She wonders, sometimes, how people can mistake Combeferre’s calm for meekness. “Perhaps we’ll take a vote on it, the week after next. Once we see what the rest of our members think, since not everyone joins us after. Much to their loss.”

“That it is,” Joly agrees cheerfully. “However, if they don’t realize what they’re missing, well… what can we do? That’s a rhetorical question, my darlings. Bossuet and I have an engagement for luncheon.”

“What, without Grantaire?” Courfeyrac says, mock scandalized, folding her hands over her heart. “How cruel!”

Grantaire snorts, producing the other women’s bonnets and gloves from nowhere. Joly artfully arranges her hat over her hair while Bossuet, slightly disconsolately, attempts to poke the ribbon on hers back into place. “Certainly not. They’ve a meeting with their future mister. A very romantic tryst, and I refuse to enhance Mister Musichetta’s reputation further.”

“Our R is a Grand Aire,” Bossuet tells them, leaning in conspiratorially, waving away Grantaire’s hand when the woman bats at her shoulder in affectionate irritation. “She has been kind enough to give us the joint space to seduce him.”

“He’s already been seduced,” Grantaire grumbles, but it’s just as affectionate as her gesture, tipping her chair back and probably crushing her bustle slightly. “They have a whole _plan_.”

“Of course we do,” Joly sniffs, rising in a swirl of blue skirts with her eyes bright and amused and lively.

Bossuet grins, her own skirts a little wider than is fashionable but cutting a sweet and cheery picture beside her friend. “We can’t all be Enjolras, who will wait until she’s won suffrage for us all before she’ll allow her parents to drag her off on her European Husband Hunting Tour.”

Enjolras is tempted to murmur something about being engaged to the cause instead while her friends laugh, but she catches the brief, unhappy furrow of Grantaire’s face and the way her eyes shadow, and she resolves to pick at it later, when there’s time. For now, she just bears their laughter with good humor.

Bahorel pats Enjolras’ shoulder, reaching for her shawl with her other hand and wrapping it neatly about her shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t stay to support you. My laughing suitor promised to promenade me and my scandalous fashions about Boston this afternoon.”

She wouldn’t go so far as to say scandalous, but it’s certainly daring – Enjolras actually isn’t certain where Bahorel managed to find a flounced silk underskirt in such a vibrant shade of red, one that matches the ribbons of her riotous floral explosion of a blue polonaise, but it _is_ very Bahorel. “I am certain you’ll catch attention admirably.”

“Of course I will,” Bahorel agrees, her grin widening as she swings her parasol up, holding it across her shoulder like a rifle. She follows Joly and Bossuet out in a flurry of hugs and kisses to cheeks, the three of them laughing perhaps a little too loudly to be proper, though that makes Enjolras smile as well.

Feuilly takes her leave a few minutes later, begging off to attend to errands that need doing while the shops are still open, and Prouvaire chooses to accompany her, their heads bent together as they slip out of the parlor, chatting almost idly about what needs to be done.

Enjolras wavers about what to do, because she could invite Courfeyrac and Combeferre to stay longer to discuss with her the intricacies of what they ought to plan and to evaluate the success of their last run of lectures, or she could ask Grantaire to join her so they could speak quietly and rather more intimately.

And bless her friends, because Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange a glance before Courfeyrac leans in to kiss Enjolras' cheek.

"I need to go rescue the abbess Pontmercy, darling," she says, smile affectionate and brown eyes bright, and rises, fluffing the ruffles of her skirt. Courfeyrac looks lovely - she always does. As little interest as Enjolras has in fashion, it warms her heart to see her friend so content with herself rather than plagued with uncertainty and insecurity. She's not vain, certainly, and not vapid, and Enjolras is at a loss for how people could think her so when Courfeyrac has so many wonderful, endearing qualities.

"Which means I should take my leave as well," Combeferre adds. She presses Grantaire's hand briefly, and then Enjolras', expression kind and soft. "Enjolras, please do thank your mother for the use of her parlor once more. Will you try to get some rest this week?"

"I will try, my friend," Enjolras promises, squeezing Combeferre's hand gently, "and you must do the same. Wednesday, as always?"

"As always!" Courfeyrac says, cheerful, as Combeferre nods, and the two make their farewells delicately as Enjolras walks them to the door, insistent upon seeing them out.

Grantaire has followed them, hat and gloves in hand as she studies Enjolras with unreadable eyes from near the door, her mouth pulling down ever so slightly. "I imagine I should take my leave as well."

"Stay," Enjolras exhorts her, as softly as she dares allow herself to be, and reaches out to brush her hand against Grantaire's. She shifts in closer, leans in just enough to murmur in Grantaire's ear. "Come with me."

There's no hesitation from Grantaire, who relaxes ever so slightly as she follows Enjolras out of the foyer and into a side hall. That makes her pause, her brow arching as Enjolras nudges the door closed. "Enjolras-"

"My parents are out of the city, and the servants away on errands," Enjolras tells her, taking Grantaire's hat and gloves from her hands and laying them on a small side table. It's easy enough to press into her space, to ghost a breath along her jaw when she’s sure she’s welcome. "There's no one to disturb or disrupt us."

Grantaire shivers a little but hums an acquiescence, her hands settling gently at Enjolras' waist, as though they were dancing. Her touch is light, and Enjolras can only barely feel the weight of Grantaire's hands through the boning and stiffness of her corset. Grantaire is studying her, eyes soft with the same inexpressible sweetness that they always seem to carry.

"I've missed you," Enjolras murmurs, and ducks her head to press her mouth to Grantaire's, her hands curving around the other woman's upper arms. She'd never expected to like kissing as much as she does, the way their mouths are soft against one another, and warm. It's a heady pleasure she never wants to let go.

"I've missed you too," Grantaire says quietly, that same flash of sorrow over her features vanishing almost before Enjolras can catch it. But then she smiles, teasing, her hand coming up so she can brush her knuckles over the delicate curve of Enjolras' cheekbone. "Never could any marble statue or fine lined drawing hope to catch your majesty and your beauty. Nor that irritated look in your eye when you draw praise, though your ire is something awe inspiring in and of itself."

"Be serious," Enjolras scolds, half heartedly, feeling her cheeks flush pink at Grantaire's words. She relents, leans in for another kiss, slow and coaxing and lingering. "You torment me."

Grantaire blinks at her innocently, her mouth already fuller and pinker for the kisses they've shared, light though they are. "I thought it was the press that tormented you."

"In an entirely different way," Enjolras replies dryly. She sighs, tension easing when Grantaire kisses her again, and Enjolras can't help but press her back a little, deepening the kiss slightly.

When they break apart, Enjolras traces her fingers up the line of Grantaire's sleeve and lets her mouth tip up into a smile, speaking softly. "You see? Your sort of torment, I could bear the rest of my life."

Grantaire attempts a laugh, but it comes out weak, and a contortion of sorrow sprints over her. It's like her emotions are a full body shiver, brief but fully present, and Enjolras can hardly miss it when they stand together so closely.

Remembering the same flicker of discontent or discomfort from earlier, suddenly, Enjolras touches Grantaire's jaw, the pads of her fingers pressing gently up to try to capture her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing of import," Grantaire dismisses, too still for all the lightness of her tone, and her eyes dart away, focusing on a point just past Enjolras' shoulder. "If we were to speak of torment-"

It's said in a drawl, slight and suggestive, but Enjolras is not easily deterred.

"Something I said upset you," she says, searching Grantaire's face. It can be difficult, divining what people are thinking and feeling from their expressions alone, and a guarded Grantaire is harder still to know.

Grantaire sighs, and she brushes her mouth briefly to the line of Enjolras' jaw, part affection, part exasperation, part amusement. Her smile is wry and self-deprecating, but she at least doesn't pull back and away.

"It is only that I know I'll not have you forever," she admits, with some shade of self recrimination, as though bitter at herself for wanting otherwise. She must see the way Enjolras' brow draws as she starts to put form to the surprised questions in her mind, because Grantaire sighs. "My family has had no luck in finding a husband for me and have, I believe, given up entirely, with two of their children already well wed. I am a disappointment, as expected. But you... if you do not chose a suitor to court your attentions, well, a year, perhaps a little more, and your family will send you off to tour Europe, and that will be that. I resign myself to it, and treasure these moments we steal, but even were I to pray to Isis, O Ianthe, I would not find myself a man, nor keep you in my grasp."

Enjolras' mouth tightens, torn between exasperation and sorrow, and she stays quiet a moment as she studies Grantaire, then she sighs.

"I've no interest in a suitor," Enjolras informs her, brisk but as gentle as she can. "If they come, I will turn them away. If my family takes me to Europe, I will beg your presence for company and a chaperone if you would join me, and return here again, with you, to you. My father is not so cruel a man to make my inheritance contingent upon my marriage, and would not change it to force me to a match. I have chosen you, Grantaire, and not lightly, and would have you as long as you would have me. I'd not discard what we have so dearly won for the sake of staying the tongues of the old gossips of the town."

Grantaire's mouth rounds, briefly, before she looks away, shy, her cheeks flushing faintly. She's sweet, like this, and oddly gentle. It strikes Enjolras suddenly how deeply her expectations of rejection run. And perhaps they are not unfounded.

Though Grantaire is loud and sometimes outspoken, brash and prickly as briars, she has a good nature for all her bouts of melancholy. She navigates the tangled webs of social politics in a way that Courfeyrac, for all her charm, or Enjolras, for hers, cannot always. Only once or twice has Enjolras seen her with children, but Grantaire has no qualm in taking a toddler in her arms or letting her skirt wrinkle up in a sticky small hand, speaking kindly but not cloyingly to them. She is a kind woman, in her way, and cares deeply for her friends. She would make, it seems to Enjolras, an excellent wife.

Why should she be dismissed? On the account of her looks, perhaps, which is something Enjolras can hardly understand. It is true that Grantaire's features are heavy and her nose clearly once broken, and that she disdains corsets - if she wears them, they hardly cinch her waist - in a way that Enjolras admires but does not dare, leaving her figure dumpy but not displeasing. She may be coarse, at times, but she is intelligent, well schooled in the Classics and painting and dancing, her needlework fine and words clever, qualities that anyone might look for.

It is a mystery to Enjolras, because she does, she must admit, have men who would hint at being suitors if she would allow. She does not. Enjolras has no interest, and would make a _terrible_ wife. She has no patience for many of the skills expected of her, her embroidery hoops perpetually abandoned for political readings, and filled with faint dread at the mind numbing prospect of hosting dull dinner parties where her voice would be unwelcome. But she is lovely – Enjolras has heard that all her life, all cream skin and golden curls and coral mouth and eyes like the sea at the feet of the city. It bewilders her that men would pass by Grantaire without a glance and set their sights on Enjolras.

"As much as you tease me for looking a statue," Enjolras says, at length, breaking Grantaire's uncharacteristic silence, "you loved me for my passion and my faith rather than my beauty. Long as it took me to see that clearly, it is a fact that I hold dear."

"You would not be half so beautiful without your faith," Grantaire tells her, brown eyes turning up at last, a spark in them once more, and her mouth turns up at the corner, affectionate. "Priestess of the ideal, you are pouring the libations eternally at the altar of humanity."

"Of which you are part, and so I pour them out to you," Enjolras retorts, pressing a soft kiss to Grantaire's full and lovely mouth. She smiles. "There, we worship each in turn and find a measure of equality upon our knees."

Grantaire chokes a little, then laughs, full and bright in the confines of the hall. She is radiant in her mirth. "Well, I must admit, if I am on my knees to you, then there is little havoc I may cause! You know me – I am full of words and little else, the empty sort of ramblings that the Romantics would despise, drawing from the urban and urbane more than nature. All the same, I would sing paeans to your name, to your glory and your beauty and your righteous sword. I will style you in Homer and in Shakespeare, and, bowing to your love of scandal, will draw from Whitman as well."

Enjolras laughs, unable to help it, and rests her forehead briefly to Grantaire's shoulder, feeling a girl all at once. "I'd not curb your tongue, though I imagine it might be put to better purpose. But -"

She sobers, suddenly, straightens. Her eyes search Grantaire's, and she is not certain, not entirely, of what she will find. Enjolras has spent many years holding herself as stiffly as her corset, well aware that flashing eyes or a lashing tongue will have her dismissed and disdained as a woman hysterical, incapable of holding her own with the men who will not see past her beauty. But Grantaire loves her for her depth of feeling, much as Enjolras loves Grantaire for the flashes of sudden and striking empathy she tries so hard to conceal. It would be misery, to lose that.

"Would you stay?" she asks, curving her hand to the tilt of Grantaire's jaw, feeling the bone that presses against her bare hand. "If I ask, would you stay with me?"

"If you would permit it," Grantaire says, the mirth in her tone banked to sudden seriousness, and her hand covers Enjolras' fleetingly, "then I would stand beside you and none other."

It is a heavy admission, a weight that Enjolras might have cast off like a coat a year past, but now it soothes and settles, because she can hear the honesty behind it, and knows how much it costs Grantaire to speak so plain, Grantaire who expects, perpetually, for kindness to strip away faster and more painfully than varnish on the seafront.

Enjolras kisses her fingers.

"There is none other I would rather stand beside," she tells Grantaire, and means it. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are dearer to her than sisters, but would be unwelcome to this part of her life as any suitor.

Grantaire smiles, then, and Enjolras kisses her once more, soft and gentle, and hopes it says what words might not. It is slow, and soft, and sweet, and Enjolras hopes only that this will impress her seriousness, the gravity of what she wants and would ask. Grantaire is pliant, has regained her faint edge of humor, because she kisses back as though she's smiling.

It's rare that they can trade kisses like this, languid and lingering. Usually they are stolen and quick, to avoid the threat of being stumbled upon, or frantic and fast, consumed with a lust they aren't supposed to feel but that makes Enjolras feel incandescently holy. But there is no one to see them here, or to look for them, and Enjolras presses Grantaire up against the wall, kisses as though she can pour love like worship in her words.

But even the softest kisses take an edge, and Grantaire is so easy, so yielding to her touch, and they break apart, breathing hard and flushed. Enjolras fights down a shiver and goes to trail a line of kisses to Grantaire's neck, right to the lace of her collar, a little worn but more than serviceable.

This is an unlooked for gift, to have this narrow space all to themselves, and Grantaire responds generously, tilting her head to allow space for Enjolras’ kisses with a soft sigh, her fingers stroking over the curve of Enjolras’ neck.

“Might I?” Enjolras asks quietly, curling her fingers in Grantaire’s skirts, enough to lift the hem just an inch, a suggestion she still doesn’t know how to make boldly and barefaced.

Grantaire hums her agreement, low and throaty, and steals Enjolras’ mouth for a kiss even as Enjolras works the other woman’s skirts and underskirts up slowly, until she can slide a hand under the gathers of fabric.

What she wouldn’t give for a handful of hours to themselves, long enough to unlace every layer of clothing and spread Grantaire back on her bed, with unhurried time to put them both back to rights after. But they lack that time, and Enjolras will make do, pressing sweet kisses to the corners of Grantaire’s mouth and jaw and neck as she teases her fingers past Grantaire’s underclothes.

“Lovely,” she murmurs in Grantaire’s ear, kissing the lobe of it, as she presses just hard enough to make Grantaire gasp and rock her hips forward. Enjolras is an intent woman – when they began, she had made her studies where she could, and applies the lessons with single-mindedness, gentle though it is now. It’s a sweeter work than any other, to make Grantaire go limp against the wall with the quiet crush of fabric.

“You exaggerate,” Grantaire replies, breath hitching on a gasp as Enjolras finally slides two fingers inside her, slow and sweet, and she lets her head tilt back, curls fighting free from their pins. “Oh, _oh_ , you are lovelier by far, with such a look of concentration on your features, as if you mean to win my pleasure from me, and leave me gasping for the touch of your hand – and god, but your hand, to drive forward relentlessly and to soothe all at once – you shall crack me open like a vase and I will spill and spill. I wonder, should I be jealous, if you have found another with whom to practice-”

Her voice cracks as Enjolras presses her thumb down harder, rubbing in tighter, firmer circles.

“Only myself, in thinking on you,” Enjolras says, a shade quieter still than usual, but without flushing red, and kisses Grantaire’s mouth matter-of-factly. She doesn’t let herself think more on what she pictures at night, the curves of Grantaire’s breasts and hips freed from the layers of dresses, what Enjolras would do to her or what Grantaire would look like were she pleasuring herself similarly.

Grantaire swears, breathy and incredulous, and the blasphemy makes Enjolras shudder, curving her fingers as she slides them out again, then in, and Grantaire is tight and hot and so _wet_ around her. They kiss, falling quiet, and Enjolras savors each little panting breath and whimpered noise against her mouth, persists until she can feel Grantaire start to shift restlessly, twists her hand to press just a little harder, and lets Grantaire ride out her climax against Enjolras’ hand as she comes with a little keening sound.

Enjolras’ thighs are damp, and she wants nothing more than to steal wet, hot kisses, but she withdraws her hand regretfully with a light caress that makes Grantaire shudder and moan, and feels a hot bolt of smugness at those men who passed her over and will never know how beautiful Grantaire is, can be when her sounds break like waves at the seawall.

There’s a certain lazy complacency warring with amazement on Grantaire’s face, her eyes half lidded and her breathing still labored, but she catches Enjolras’ hand all the same, presses her handkerchief into it so that Enjolras doesn’t absently wipe it on her skirt.

“You will undo me, more than you have already undone me,” Grantaire says, teasing and satiated, and she kisses Enjolras even as she maneuvers her against the wall. “You’ve a skillful touch, and so I cannot fault you for your disdain of flowers, though you’ve roses blooming high in your cheeks, the picture of summer and youth. I would paint you, were it not a greater blasphemy by far. As it is, I’ll paint you and map you by touch, and dedicate the art to the muse. Would you sing, oh muse, if I ply it from you?”

As she speaks, she sinks to her knees with little thought for her clothes, and draws her hand slowly up Enjolras’ shin, baring her leg just enough to press a kiss to her calf above her boot.

“Clearly I’ve not undone you enough, if you’ve still words,” Enjolras says tartly, but her words have little sting to them, and her blush darkens at the sweet, unexpected kiss. She watches, breath feeling lodged high in her chest as Grantaire pushes her skirts up by inches, kisses light but taunting, tempting, and Enjolras _wants_ , and only barely bites back a demanding noise when Grantaire passes her hold of her skirts so that she can pull down Enjolras’ undergarments, breath ghosting over the pale curve of her inner thigh.

She should feel ashamed, pressed back against the wall of the narrow hallway with her skirts hiked up over her hips, Grantaire’s hands insistently spreading her thighs as she laps at the wetness between Enjolras’ legs. She should be mortified, but all she feels is _warm_ , heat suffusing her as she moans, high and wanton.

Enjolras has been called frigid many times, ice-eyed and cold-hearted, but Grantaire sparks something within, makes her burn and melt. She’s aware of every shift of air and movement on her bared skin, her fingers clutched in her skirts tightly enough to wrinkle, the fine tremors in her muscles and she wishes she could spread her legs wider, could find the words to beg for more.

Grantaire slides a finger in, then two, and Enjolras gasps for air. Her corset presses against her ribs, leaves her breathless and dizzy, but it’s a delicious sort of burn, makes the pleasure of being touched spiral higher and higher, and she feels taut and overwarm. She feels restless, wanting, wonderful, and there, there, that’s it, a third finger stretching her just that little bit more, so full she understands what Grantaire meant about spilling over, and Enjolras is grateful she’s not capable of more than a gasping sob when she comes.

She shudders when Grantaire slips her fingers free, oversensitive, and sighs when Grantaire kisses her damp thighs. Enjolras allows herself one more breath in the glow, then readjusts her undergarments, lets her skirts fall, and feels heady again when she catches the taste of herself on Grantaire’s mouth even after she’s wiped it clean.

“You spoil me,” Enjolras murmurs, a lingering depth to the kiss she steals, long and slow.

Grantaire looks like she’s been offered high praise even though her mouth quirks, and she kisses Enjolras’ cheek. “I make up for my over exercise of my tongue in speech with other manners, or I’d never be forgiven, and you make it a sweet prospect.”

It’s said cheerfully, lightly, but Grantaire’s eyes are soft and crinkled at the corners from her smile as she puts them back to rights. Her heads are steady but careful on Enjolras’ clothes, tugging flounces back into place and smoothing out the bustled fabric, tugging the bodice back to order.

Enjolras returns the favor, even attempting to help with the wild curls that escaped their pins. She straightens Grantaire’s collar, smoothing out the fabric, and lets her hands linger there. Grantaire blinks, but doesn’t pull away, only ghosts a touch to the line of Enjolras’ jaw.

They should move, should wash up, in case someone comes home, and Grantaire should leave soon before it wears on too far into evening, because there’s no excuse for the way they linger. But Enjolras allows herself a moment to be selfish, to rest her forehead against Grantaire’s and smell the different laundry soap, the faint scents that she doesn’t recognize.

“There is no one I would rather have than you,” she says, quiet, and allows them a beat of happiness away from the expectations that may come knocking. It will be a week, most likely, until she sees Grantaire again, and likely more until they can find time to slip away together. She will savor this. 

“And no one I would rather have than you,” Grantaire replies, sincere, and her hand is warm on Enjolras’ skin, and there is no one else’s esteem that could matter more, that she could hold higher.

She debates thanking her, and decides against it, closing her eyes and breathing in the warmth of the air and the calm that lingers there, and for the moment does not think of politics or prospects but just of this, and having this, and feeling dearly, fully loved, no matter what any have to say.


End file.
